LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf._k. K T^ ^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



A ROUND OF RIMES 



BY 

DENIS A. McCarthy 



BOSTON 
REVIEW PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1900 



85548 



jL-ibfjar-y of Ckjncrresa 

j Iwj; aH>tes Received 
I DEC 7 1900 

SECOND COPY 

Oelivtired to 

OKD£H DIVISION 

otc 8 lyuu 






Copyright, 1900, 
By Denis A. McCarthy. 



Who never doubted clouds would break. 



PREFACE. 



The author of this modestly-named volume has honored 
me with an invitation to say "a brief, prefatory word" 
about his work. But I am going to presume upon our 
cherished friendship to evade such limitations as to brevity, 
for I shall speak carte blanche, without reserve, in the full- 
ness of an admiration born of a critical, impartial analysis. 

The public has a right to know about its poets. 

The poet may not follow others' lead 
And lightly write what some may lightly read; 
But true to life, his lines some trace must-bear 
Of life's mysterious sorrow and despair. 

This is a stanza from Mr. McCarthy's word-painting of 
" The Poet." I consider it typical of himself — it describes 
my poet accurately and well. He does not ** follow others' 
lead." His lines are "true to life" and they breathe 
" of life's mysterious sorrow." 

Denis A. McCarthy was born in Ireland in the *' Golden 
Vale" of Tipperary, and came to Boston when but a boy. 



His education abroad was under the direction of the Chris- 
tian Brothers. But it was in the great University of the 
"World that he matriculated, and he has already taken 
several degrees, summa cum laude. 

Mr. McCarthy essays the heights of Parnassus with a 
free and independent carriage ; he loves fresh air and the 
sunshine ; the purity and the vigor of Nature are in all his 
verses. But of his beloved Motherland he sings best and 
sweetest. 

Mr. McCarthy's name is already favorably known to the 
American reading public. His poetry and his prose have 
graced the columns of many magazines and newspapers. 
I am sure that my own department of " Under the Rose," 
in the Boston Daily Globe, has been often strongly en- 
hanced by his loyal lyrics and his romantic melodies. 

His position as Associate Editor of the Sacred Heart 
Review gives to him an assured place in the Catholic liter- 
ature of the day. His pen is facile and forceful, and he is 
constantly alert and active in the defence of religion and 
of race. 

The Pilot, whose editors know the essential elements of 
poetic excellence, has this to say of one of Mr. McCarthy's 
productions : " Nearly a year ago, a charming little poem 



appeared in the Pilot under the title, ' Ah, Sweet i3 Tip- 
perary in the Spring 1 ' with the signature • D. A. McCarthy.' 
It was not Mr. McCarthy's first poem in the Pilot, nor hap- 
pily has it been his last. But this especial poem was so 
full of music and color as to become at once a favorite, 
widely copied by the press ; and finally quoted by a dis- 
cerning teacher in a prominent school, well known for Its 
imparting of a fine literary taste to its pupils, as an exam- 
ple of true, spontaneous, and really exquisite poetry." 

Bud Brier does not claim for these "Rimes" (any more 
than does their author) that they are, each and every one, 
perfect examples of verse making. He is aware that his 
friendship for this new singer may be the cause of some of 
the admiration he feels for the songs. But he can frankly 
present them as a creditable beginning of the still better 
and nobler work that Mr. McCarthy is destined to do in 

the future. 

William Hopkins. 

Boston, November, 1900. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Poet 13 

Where Mother Sleeps 14 

When AU the World Goes Wrong ... 15 

My Song 17 

A Dreamer Lives for Ever 19 

When Summer Comes Again .... 20 

Ah, Sweet Is Tipperary 21 

Remorse 23 

The Poet's Heart 24 

Love's Joy and Grief 25 

A Song of '98 26 

First Love 28 

A Hundred Years Ago 29 

The Sorrow of Love 30 

An Old Woman's Thought 31 

Love and War 33 

In the Tumult of the City 34 

Go Where You Will 36 

A Question 37 



10 













PAGE 


A Shamrock from the Suir 38 


Memories of Ireland 










40 


Dreams 










41 


Poor Love Must Wait . 










42 


To One in Bohemia 










43 


Land of Youth . 










44 


Across the Seas in Erin 










46 


Rose of My Heart 










48 


The Memory of Emmet 










49 


A Prairie Reminiscence 










52 


In Summer 










54 


A Picture 










55 


For Love's Sweet Sake . 










56 


ISaw . 










57 


Voices from Erin . 










58 


Thy Deep Dark Eyes . 










59 


Sweetheart . 










60 


The Heart of Having Is Sac 










61 


Heroes .... 










62 


Ireland .... 










63 


When Love Lay Dead . 










64 


The Roses 










65 


The Midnight Mass 










66 


Come Unto Me 










68 



11 



Christmas-time in Ireland 

John and Sam 

The Song I Would Sing 

Waiting . 

After Summer 

Do We Forget 

Love and Reason 

What It Is . 

An Exile's Longing 

Let Us Have War 

Boer and Briton 

To Paul Kruger 

General Joubert 

Whene'er I Think of Thee 

" Bonny Mary of Argyle " 

I Think of Thee . 

A Buried Heart • 

When Mamie Speaks Her Piece 

The Autumn Rain . 

€ome, Cheer Up 1 . 



PAGE 

70 

72 
74 
76 
78 
79 
80 
81 
82 
84 
86 
88 
90 
92 
94 
96 
97 
99 
101 
103 



13 



THE POET. 

The poet sees the tragedy that lies 
Concealed within the heart from other eyes. 

Behind the mask, behind the surface smile 
He sees the gnawing canker-grief the while. 

Beneath the word he sees the deeper thought, 
And, deeper still, the soul with sorrow fraught. 

All things reveal themselves unto his ken. 
His chart is human life ; his books are men. 

And this the secret is of all his art : 
He sees life wholly, others but in part. 

A godlike gift is this the gods bestow 
To see the truth, to feel it and to know. 

And thus because he pierces the pretence 
Of shallow smiles and words disguising sense, 

The poet may not follow others' lead 

And hghtly write what some may lightly read. 

But true to life his Unes some trace must bear 
Of life's mysterious sorrow and despair. 
The sweetest music breathes a minor strain, 
And life would not be perfect but for pain. 

And so the poet sings of grief and strife. 
And tears and fears, because of such is life. 



14 



WHERE MOTHER SLEEPS. 

Where mother sleeps 

No sunbeam glances gladly ; 

But the wind sadly 
Through the long grasses sweeps. 
The night dew weeps, 

And darkly shadows fall 

From the old ruined abbey wall 
Where ivy creeps. 

No song of bird, 

Saving the owlet's dismal cry, is hear.!. 
No floweret gay, 
Child of the sun-loved summer day, 

From the cold earth upleaps. 
But all is drear : 
Death's silence reigneth here — 

Where mother sleeps. 



15 



WHEN ALL THE WORLD GOES WRONG. 

When all the world goes wrong, my dear, 

When all the world goes wrong, 
When in the heart no hope there is, 

And in the soul no song ; 
When every thought with grief is fraught, 

Ah, then I look and long 
For love and cheer from thee, my dear, 

When all the world goes wrong ! 

When all the world goes right, my dear, 

When all the world goes right, 
With every promise proving true 

And every prospect bright ; 
The gladsome gleams of golden dreams 

Are fairer in my sight. 
If you are near to share, my dear. 

When all the world goes right ! 

But let the world go right or wrong, 
Your hand and voice and kiss' 

Can charm away, from day to day. 
My sadness into bliss ; 



16 



With you to share my joy and care 
My toil, my smile, my song, 

I will not fret, but freely let 

The world go right or wrong ! 



17 



MY SONG. 

I said, " I'll sing of all the foreign places 

And of the faces that my eyes have seen, 
Since, long ago, I looked my last on Erin, 

Beloved Erin of the valleys green ! " 
And there before me like a panorama, 

The long, long drama of my exiled days, 
The friends and scenes of many a year of wand'ring. 

As I sat pond'ring, passed before my gaze. 

But when I tried to sing, behold, I could not ! 

My fingers would not wake the silent chords; 
And though I bent my mind unto the singing 

There was no ringing of the magic words. 

And then I said : " I'll sing of one the dearest, 

Of one the nearest in the storm and strife, 
Of one who led me through the toil and trouble 

Of things ignoble to a better life; 
Yea, I will steep my soul in dreamings of her, 

For O ! I love her and have loved her long, 
And I will wake my harp to give expression 

To all my passion in a sweet, sweet song." 

But when I tried to sing, behold, I could not ! 

My fingers would not o'er the harpstrings move, 
And though I bent my mind unto the singing 

There was no ringing of the lay of love. 



18 



I said at last, " I'll sing a song of Erin, 

My own dear Erin o'er the distant seas ; 
I'll sing of all the olden, golden glories 

That fill the stories of her seanachies; 
For through my veins her ancient blood is flowing,. 

My heart is glowing with her ancieat fire, 
And I will sing of her, though sad and lonely. 

My land, the only land of my desire ! " 

And then I sang ; I struck the harp with boldness ; 

No longer coldness hindered mind or hand ; 
And from my lips there poured the pride, the gladness, 

Ay, and the sadness of my native land ! 



19 



"A DREAMER LIVES FOREVER." 

I, too, have been a dreamer ; I have knelt 

To truth and beauty in Arcadian meads ; 
The rapture of the poet I have felt, 

And all his keen desire for noble deeds. 
And though my money-minded neighbor deems 

Of little worth the things that I have done, 
Far dearer to the dreamer are his dreams 

Than all the wealth by worldly wisdom won. 



WHEN SUMMER COMES AGAIN. 

When summer comes again, dear, 

And balmy breezes blow, 
The fields will all be sweet with flowers 

That now are white with snow ; 
Blue mists will wrap the hill, dear, 

And echoes haunt the glen, 
And sunbeams kiss the rill, dear, 

When summer comes again. 

When winter winds have tied, dear, 

And winter's dreary hours. 
The lark wiU whistle in the cloud, 

The blackbird in the bowers ; 
The earth her best will don, dear, 

To glad the eyes of men, 
When winter days are gone, dear, 

And summer comes again. 

When summer comes again, dear. 

And love a spell hath wove 
Around thy gentle heart and mine 

That scarce have dreamed of love, 
The coldness of the past, dear, 

Will be forgotten then, 
When love is lord at last, dear, 

And summer comes again. 



21 



AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARY, 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, 
When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all 
a- tremble 
With their singing and their winging to and fro ; 
When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant ves- 
ture on, 
And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring ; 
When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that 
dance — 
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring ! 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 

When the mists are rising from the lea, 
When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all 
beguiling 

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea ; 
When the shadows and the showers only multiply 
the flowers 

That the lavish hand of May will fling ; 
When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays— 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring ! 



22 



Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the Kspringtime of the year, 

When Ufe like the year is young, 
When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom 
breaking, 

And love words linger on the tongue ; 
When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes. 

And love dreams cluster and cling 
Kound the heart and round the brain,|half of pleasure, 
half of pain — 

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring 1 



23 



REMORSE. 

I spoke to him shortly, sharply, 
I looked on him with a frown, 

I told him his sins and follies 

Were the talk of all the town — 

And now there's a sorrow in my heart 
That tears can never drown. 

Sympathy never I offered, 
Blinded I was with pride, 

The hand I should have reached him 
Hung idly at my side — 

And now Remorse a constant guest 
Will ever with me abide. 

Ah, had I been more loving. 
Had I but guarded and led ; 

But I went my way unheeding, 
And closed my heart instead ; 

And now, too late, I love him. 
Too late, for he is dead. 



24 



THE POET'S HEAI^T. 

The poet'g heart's a crucible wherein 

The baser metals of life's grief and wrong 

Are by the subtle alchemy of pain 

Transmuted straight into the gold of song. 



25 



LOVE'S JOY AND GRIEF. 

Love lifts us to the height of the immortals, 
Love gives us sight until we almost see 

The bliss that hides behind the shining portals 
Of God's eternity ! 

Ah, yes. Love's joy is sweet beyond believing ; 

And blest is he whose life has felt its power ; 
But pity him whose heart has known the grieving 

Of Love's sad hour 1 



26 



A SONG OF '98. 

Open your ears to the song I sing you, 
Open your eyes to the truth I show. 
Open your hearts to the hope I bring you, 

Hope for a land that is lying low ; 
Centuries old are the chains that bind her, 

Centuries old is the scar she bears, 
Bitter as death are the days behind her. 
Yet through it all she never despairs ! 

Rouse you then from your idle dreaming, 
Wake to welcome the time at hand, 
Liberty's light will soon be streaming 
Over the hills of our native land I 

Red in the night the fires are glowing, 
Loud in the night the anvils ring, 
Faces dark in the flames are glowing, 

Sinewy arms the sledges swing. 
Steady and sure the task pursuing, 

Each after each the metal strikes- 
Men, are you blind to the work they're doing? 
Can you not see they are forging pikes 1 

Pikes, the weapons of good and true men. 
Pikes, the weapons of Freedom's sons, 
Pikes to put in the hands of you, men, 
After a while you may capture guns ! 



27 



Listen, we've heard from across the water, 
Heard a message from friendly lips — 
France, young Liberty's daring daughter 

Over the sea, is sending ships 
Laden with means for the land's salvation- 
Men and money and arms, galore, 
Coming to help us raise the nation 

Up to her ancient place once more 1 

Rouse you then from your idle dreaming, 
Grasp the weapon that fits the hand, 
Liberty's Ught will soon be streaming 
Over the hills of our native land ! 



28 



FIRST LOVE. 

O, Bweet is life when Youth is in the blood 1 

And Love first lays his glamour on the heart 1 

When dreams anticipant are at their flood, 
And into being new-found feelings start ! 

O, Time ! Thy swiftly flying steps retrace ; 

Come Love, again, and fill my heart with joy 
For what can Manhood oflfer to replace 

The rapturous self-deception of a boy ! 



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 

A hundred years ago thy valleys rang, 

Land of my heart, with Freedom's battle-cry, 

When Wexford's peasantry in frenzy sprang 

To arms, resolved to break thy chains or die ! 

Bright was the vision, as the glorious green 
And golden banner o'er the battle shone, 

And England's strength gave way before the keen, 
Bright blades of those who followed Father John! 

Bright was the vision ! — but, alas, my land, 
The vision was as fleeting as 'twas bright, 

Thy foes were stronger than thou couldst withstand, 
And Freedom's sun went down in slavery's night! 



30 



THE SORROW OF LOVE. 

I said, *' I am fain to borrow, 

O Life, of your joys' sweet store ; ' 

But the gift of Love brought sorrow 
Worse than was mine before. 

" But I'm conscious of life completer, 
From the sorrows the years have 
brought, 

For the iorrow of Love is sweeter 
Than joy where Love is not." 



81 



AN OLD WOMAN'S THOUGHT. 

Ah ! if 1 were only in Erin, 

In Erin far over the wave, 
'Tis little at all I'd be carin', 

And few are the troubles I'd have ! 
For there are the well-beloved places — 

The chapel, the village, the mill, 
The sthream laughing loud as it races 

Down from the hill. 

There, mornin's in spring many scented, 

There hawthorn's snowy white bloom, 
There sunsets at evenin' God-painted, 

There glow-worms shine in the gloom, 
There boreens enchantin'ly mazy 

All bordered with flowers in June, 
There daffy-down-dilly and daisy 

And meadow larks tune. 

There friends at each turn to meet me 

With kindly " God save you, asthore ! " 
An' others with blessin's to greet me 

The minute I'd open the door. 
There children the soft chair to bring me 

Sayin', "Welcome ! Sit down awhile, ma'am, 
And never the cowld word to sting me, 

Ould as I am. 



32 



But here I am weary, so weary I 

The city's smoke spreads like a pall, 
The skies are so gray and so dreary, 

There's no friend to greet me at all ; 
My daughters are proud, overbearin', 

My sons wish me laid in the grave — 
Ah ! if I were only in Erin 

'Tis few of these troubles I'd have ! 



33 



LOVE AND WAR. 

Must Love be silent when the brazen tongue 

Of war's loud tocsin fills the land with dread ? 

When flaunting war-flags to the winds are flung, 
And hearts grow sick with sorrow for the dead ? 

When harsh and sullen the imperious drum 
Commands tranquility's repose to cease, 

Must Love be silent, must the lips be dumb 

That erewhile sang his songs in perfect peace? 

Ah, not for peace alone love here exists. 
Nor are his songs made only for delight, 

Love enters, too, the nation's bloody lists 

To fire the hearts and nerve the arms that fight. 

The awful clamor of the days of strife 

New strength and meaning to his songs impart, 
And thus is Love through all the ways of life 

The chosen minstrel of the human heart. 



34 



*MN THE TUMULT OF THE CITY." 

In the tumult of the city there is neither rest nor 
peace, 

Of the hurry and the worry we may never know 
surcease, 

For, before one trouble's ended there's another all 
begun, 

And before one race is over there's another to be run. 

But I know a land of quiet, but I know a place of 
dreams. 

By a softly-flowing river that's the pleasantest of 
streams, 

Where a soothing wind is sighing through the mead- 
ows all the day. 

In my own dear native valley far away ! 

In the tumult of the city there is glory to be won. 
And the promptings of ambition at one's heart are 

never done ; 
But I'm weary of the struggle and I'm fain again to 

lie 
In the long, luxuriant grasses where the river wanders 

by. 
Let them fight for fame who want it, I had rather sit 

and dream 
In the pleasant fields of Erin with the sunlight on the 

stream ; 



36 

What's the good of gold and glory when your life is 

dull and gray, 
And you're sighing for a valley far away ! 

But the tumult of the city, howsoever loud it be, 
Can not drown the robin's singing in the fields of 

memory ; 
And the clouds of care that hover, can not mar the 

mental view 
Of the smiling Irish meadows with the river flowing 

through ; 
So I'll face, again, the battle, though the odds be ten 

to one. 
For the future can not rob me of the happiness that's 

gone; 
And I'll gird my soul in patience, though I never- 

more may stray 
Through my own dear native valley far away ! 



36 



GO WHERE YOU WILL. 

Go where you will my heart will follow after ; 
Ever my ears are listening for your laughter ; 
Ever my eyes look longingly to see 
Your face, again, that is so dear to me ! 

Go where you will may blessings be about you ; 
Drear are the days, dear one, and sad, without you ; 
Swift be the wings of time until I see 
Your face, again, that is so dear to me ! 

Go where you will — love laughs at time or distance ; 
Love st411 maintains, through all, its sweet insistence; 
Yet, knowing this, I still am fain to see 
Your face, again, that is so dear to me ! 



37 



A QUESTION. 

If, after all the vows that I have sworn 

Of love and constancy, my heart should stray 

To brighter eyes and redder lips, and scorn 

Thy love that has been mine for many a day, 

Wouldst thou upbraid me with a bitter tongue. 
And call down curses on my recreant head? 

Or wouldst thou, for love's sake, forgive the wrong, 
And let thy heart be merciful instead ? 



38 



A SHAMROCK FROM THE SUIR. 

Our country's feast is drawing near ; 

Then, sister mine, I pray, 
Send me a little shamrock, dear, 

To wear upon that day ; 
'Twill comfort me, and make me strong 

My exile to endure, 
'Twill be what I have wished for long — 

A shamrock from the Suir. 

A shamrock from the sun-loved vale 

Wherein my youth was spent ; 
A shamrock kissed by ev'ry gale 

And sweet with springtime's scent ; 
A shamrock that at vesper bell 

Has drunk of dew-drops pure ; 
A shamrock that the heart can tell 

Grew green beside the Suir. 

And oh, the memories of old 

That to my mind will rise, 
When I the triple leaves behold 

Again, with tear-dimmed eyes ! 
And oh, the dreams of days ere yet| 

I followed fortune's lure. 
Ere hearts were sad, or eyes tear-wet 

Beside the peaceful Suir ! 



39 



And faces that for years have lain 

Beneath the graveyard mould, 
Will greet me smilingly again 

As in the days of old ; 
And once again my mother mild 

Will breathe her teachings pure, 
For I'll be as a little child — 

A child beside the Suir. 

Then send a shamrock, dear, to me 

Across the dreary wave. 
And pluck it from beneath the tree 

That shades our mother's grave; 
And all the pain and weariness 

Which vainly seeks a cure 
Will fly, when to my lips I press 

That shamrock from the Suir ! 



40 



MEMORIES OF IRELAND. 

I see in dreams a purple mountain rise 

Above a verdant vale, 
Across the azure stretches of the skies 

I see the cloud-ships sail. 

A river rippled by a wandering wind 

Sighs mournfully along, 
As if its waters grieved to leave behind 

The beauties here that throng. 

And this is home, thus pictured in my dreams. 

This hill is Slievenamon ; 
And this the Suir, the queen of all the streams 

The sunlight plays upon. 

This is the summer sky of bygone days 

That on my youthhood smiled, 
And this the Golden Valley, through whose ways 

I wandered when a child. 

Oh, dear dream-pictures of my native Isle 

Across the spreading seas, 
You give me grief — you give me joy the while, — 

Oh, sad, sweet memories ! 

For, as in Ireland, through the Winding rain 

The sun's bright rays are cast ; 
So pleasure mingles in my heart with pain 

Remembering the past ! 



41 



DREAMS. 

When the balmy days grow long, 
Love, I dream of thee the more, 

And I weave into my song 

All the sad, sweet thoughts that throng 
Of the golden days of yore. 

If to dream of thee be wrong 
Then have I offended sore. 
Love, I dream of thee the more 

When the balmy days grow long. 

All the winter have I sighed 
For thy presence, wearily ; 

Grieving gazed across the wide 

Gulf of selfish human pride 
That divided thee and me. 

Now sweet hope inspires my song, 
Wears the smile that once she wore — 
Love, I dream of thee the more 

When the balmy days grow long ! 



42 



POOR LOVE MUST WAIT. 

Poor Love must wait till duty'a done, 
Poor Love must wait till fame be won, 
Though years go sighing, one by one, 

"Too late! Too late!" 
Till duty'a done and fame be won, 

Poor Love must wait. 

Poor Love must wait though hearts may ache, 
Poor Love must wait though hearts may break, 
Though tears will flow for his dear sake — 

Yet such is Fate, 
Though hearts may ache, though hearts may break, 

Poor Love must wait ! 

Poor Love must wait, through every pain, 
Poor Love must wait — but not in vain. 
Though all things else by time be slain, 

Love conquers Fate I 
O, not in vain, through every pain 

Poor Love must wait ! 



43 



TO ONE IN BOHEMIA. 

Brother in suffering, brother, too, in song, 

We well can smile at what the days may bring, 

For we have known the limit of life's wrong 
And felt of sorrow's pain the utmost sting. 

Then let us sing — gazing with fearless eyes 

Upon the coming years, whate'er they bear. 

Behold the sun is shining in the skies, 

And God is master of the world's despair ! 



44 



O LAND OF YOUTH! 

O Land of Youth ! Land of hopeful hearts J 

O flowery, fruitful Land of faith and trust I 
How sweet to turn — as year on year departs, 

And see» each fond illusion fall to dust — 
How sweet, and yet how sad, to turn away 

From present pain, the past to linger o'er, 
And try to bring into the bl,eak today 

The dreams of joy that I shall know no more. 

O Land of Youth ! Swift rolls the tide of Time, 

Whose current bears me farther still from thee, 
Through many a strange and uncongenial clime 

My bark of life goes outward to the sea ; 
More distant grow thy hills that used to rise 

Like inspirations in the days of yore. 
And naught remains of thee to glad my eyes, 

O Land of Youth, that I shall see no more ! 

But memory musing o'er the golden hours 

That once were mine amid thy verdant vales, 
Transports me back again among the flowers 

Whose fragrance freighted all the summer gales ;. 
And one fair face that I would fain forget 

Looks out upon me from a cottage door, 
Until my heart is weary with regret — 

Regret for love that I shall know no more 1 



45 



O Land of Youth ! Too soon we leave behind 

Thy ways serene, thy innocent delights I 
Too soon we burden the exhausted mind 

With toilsome days of care and cheerless nights I 
Would God that it had been my lot to stay 

A little longer on thy friendly shore, 
And so, perhaps, possess thy peace today — 

Thy blessed peace, that I shall know no more I 



46 



ACROSS THE SEAS IN ERIN. 

Across the seas in Erin are manly hearts and true. 
Are souls to dream, 
And minds to scheme, 
And willing hands to do ! 
Then wherefore from her valleys do her scattered 

people flee ? 
And wherefore is she still oppressed when other lands 
are free ? 
Alas ! alas, for Erin ! With all her brain and brawn, 
The years reveal 
Her children's steel 
Against each other drawn. 

Across the seas |in Erin are men like those who 
made 
The martial fame 
And splendid name 
Of Meagher's bold brigade ! 
Then wherefore is the right denied that she has sued 

for long ? 
And why is she still bowed beneath sad centuries of 
wrong ? 
Alas 1 alas, for Erin! With all the stirring deeds, 
In chains she lives. 
And no one gives 
The unity she needs. 



47 



AcroBS the eeae in Erin, what joy to hear again 
The voice of one 
Whose magic tone 
Could fuse the hearts of men ! 
Gould fuse the various hearts of men till petty strife 

should die, 
And o'er her hills should ring one grand united battle 
cry ! 
Alas I alas, for Erin ! Her faith in men is past, 
But God is just, 
And God He must 
Uplift her at the last ! 



48 



ROSE OF MY HEART. 

Rosea riot in rich profusion 

Over the garden walls of June ; 

Birds are singing in rare confusion 

Each with his own sweet summer tune. 

Fair are the flowers that morn discloses 
Still suflfused with the tears of dew — 

Yet I know that of all the roses, 

Rose of my heart, there is none like you I 



49 



THE MEMORY OF EMMET. 

At the celebration of the 118th anniversary of the birth 
of Robert Emmet, held in Faneuil Hall, March 4, 1896, 
under the auspices of the Hibernian Total Abstinence 
Association, the following poem, specially written for the 
occasion, was read. 

Years come and go, and kings grow old and die, 
And those who whilom held the world in thrall 

Tbroneless and sceptreless and crownless lie, 
Finding in death the common fate of all. 

Systems and dynasties and nations rise, 
Awhile the destinies of men they sway ; 

Anon a ruin staring at the skies 

Proclaims their littleness and their decay. 

Vainly the monarch flings around his throne 
A shining armament of mail-clad hordes ; 

Vainly, for lo, the centuries are strown 

With wrecks of kingdoms once upheld by swords 1 

Nothing survives save Right — nor king, nor throne ; 

That nation, howsoe'er its strongholds stand. 
Which hath not Right for its foundation-stone 

Is like a house that's built upon the sand. 



50 



Nothing survives save Right — for God is just ; 

The Right is His, He^guards it thro' the years ; 
He humbles the oppressor in the dust, 

He hath an answer to a nation's tears. 

Nothing survives save Right — a man today 

For loving Right may meet a shameful death — 

But glorified by death, his name, for aye. 

Becomes the watchword of a nation's faith! 

Thus Emmet died a hundred years ago, 

Thus unto Right his faithfulness he proved ; 

His only crime — for crime they called it so — 

Was this, he would have freed the land he loved ! 

A hundred years ago. And yet, and yet, 

Where is the Irish heart that does not flame, 

Fired with a love 'twere treason to forget, 

At the mere sound of Robert Emmet's name 1 

He saw his country's very life assailed. 

Bleeding and bound a victim at the stake, 

He tried to set her free and, when he failed, 
He freely gave his life for her dear sake. 

" Let no man write my epitaph," he said ; 

(A hand enslaved were utterly unfit,) 
So on the stone that marks where he is laid. 

His country, still un- freed, no word has writ 



51 



But what are epitaphs engraved on stone, 

Or eulogies emblazoned on a scroll? 
His name and fame endure and his alone 

Whose deeds are shrined within his country's soul. 

Kings and their hireling hosts, when they depart. 
Rot un-remembered as the years go by ; 

But while there beats one faithful Irish heart, 
The memory of Emmet shall not die ! 



52 



A PRAIRIE REMINISCENCE. 

In the years of youth and yearning, when I wandered 

free and far 
Out beyond the smoke of cities where the spreading 

prairies are, 
Once I lingered for a season by a stream that flowed 

along, 
Lingered captured and enraptured by a maiden and 
a song. 
Ah, the years between are long. 
But remembrances will throng 
Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
wrong, 
Though she's lying low today 
In the westland far away, 
I am dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
her song ! 

Oh, the splendor of that summer never from my mind 

shall fade ! 
Nor the sweetness of the singing nor the beauty of 

the maid, 
•Though the days of youth may vanish, yet the dreams 

of youth remain. 
Be the measure of our pleasure mingled howsoe'er 

with pain. 



53 



Ah, the years between are long, 
But remembrances will throng 
Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
wrong. 
Though upon her lonely grave 
Prairie blooms in beauty wave, 
I am dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
her song! 

Long ago I ceased my roving, ceased to wander free 

and far, 
And the golden grand ideals of my boyhood buried 

are; 
But a vision comes to cheer me as the dull days drag 

along 
Of a maiden, flower laden, pouring forth her soul in 
song. 
Ah, the years between are long, 
Still the memory is strong 
Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
wrong. 
Summer's sun and winter's snow, 
In her grave she's lying low; 
But I'm dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
her song. 



54 



IN SUMMER. 

Across the land the summer walks in splendor; 

The flowers spring up to greet her, and the skies 
Look down upon her with a glance as tender 

As love awakens in a maiden's eyes. 

Along the eaves I see the creeper clinging, 
The morning-glories open to the sun, 

And in the orchard trees the birds are singing 
Their vesper service when the day is done. 

The silence of the winter and its sadness 
Have given place to music and to mirth, 

And yet my heart discovers naught of gladness 
In all the light and beauty of earth. 

For one who loved the summer and the sweetness 
Of woods and fields responsive to her breath 

Has passed away with more than summer fleetness 
Into the realm of darkness and of dtath. 



55 



A PICTURE. 

Love's languorous look lies dreaming in her eyes, 

Red roses cluster in her night-black hair, 
And all in vain her snowy vesture tries 

To match the whiteness of her bosom fair. 
Serenely beautiful, with every grace, 

With every gift that nature can impart, 
A perfect woman, radiant in her place. 

And lacking only this : A woman's heart I 



56 



FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. 

O, I have wandered many a ATeary mile, 

For Love's sweet sake, 
With aching heart and breaking heart the while^ 

For Love's sweet sake, 
And often have I seen, through all those yeari, 
My brightest hopes dissolve in darkest fears, 
And known full well the bitterness of tears, 

For Love's sweet sake. 

The ways forsaken of the world I've trod. 

For Love's sweet sake, 
My miseries unseen of all but God, 

For Love's sweet sake. 
A stranger among strangers, I have lain 
My tired head upon the lap of Pain, 
And felt the weight of burdens borne in vain. 

For Love's sweet sake. 

And knowing all I have endured for thee. 

And Love's sweet sake, 
Wilt thou not, of thy pity, turn to me, 

For Love's sweet sake? 
Unlock the door thy blindness closed fast, 
Forget the cruel coldness of the past, 
And let me come into thy heart at last, 

For Love's sweet sake ! 



57 



I SAW. 

I saw the golden moon arise 

Out of the silent sea, 
I saw the star-shine fill the skies 

With deeper mystery ; 
I saw the shadowy ships go on 

Across the swelling tide — 
And grief was in my heart for one 

Who loved me and who died ! 



58 



VOICES FROM ERIN. 

There are always voices calling to the exile over-seas, 
Cries from Erin's mother-heart are on the wings 
of every wind ; 
And they fill the eye with pictures, and the mind with 
memories, 
Of the days of youth and love that, long ago, he 
left behind. 

There are always voices caUing — and the clamorous 
demands, 
Of the present, its ambitions and its triumphs and 
its fears, 
dan not lessen for an instant, tho' he strays in distant 
lands. 
All the sweetness to the exile of the dreams of other 
years ! 



59 



THY DEEP, DARK EYES. 

It may be I skall nevermore behold 

The wondrous beauty of thy deep, dark eyes — 
I know their like Time never will unfold 

This side of Paradise ! 

And yet, where'er you be, my love, my life, 

Those eyes too sad for smiles, too bright for tears, 

Will cheer my heart 'mid all its care and strife, 
And haunt me through the years ! 



60 



SWEETHEART. 

Sweetheart, O sweetheart! Though winter winds are 

loud, 
Though silently the earth lies beneath its snowy 
shroud. 
For me the birds are singing and the skies serene 

and blue, 
Sweetheart, O sweetheart ! And all because of you. 

Sweetheart, O sweetheart ! The heai'ts of some are 
bowed 

In homage to the haughty, in bondage to the proud. 
But happier am I by far than those who vainly sue, 
Sweetheart, sweetheart ! And all because of you. 

Sweetheart, O Isweetheart I though thickly eorrowB 

crowd, 
Though false are the friends who eternal friendship 
vowed. 
For me the future shines as if all the world were 

true, 
Sweetheart, O sweetheart ! And all because of you. 



61 



"THE HEART OF HAVING IS SAD." 

0, how can you repay me for the hopeless love and 
longing 
Of the silent adoration that I offered you for 
years — 
For years of doubt and darkness and of trials that 
came thronging, 
When my heritage and portion was the bitterness 
of tears ! 

The happiness you grant me now it may not find 
expression ; 
The love you lavish on me it is given few to 
know — 
Bat yet, despite the rapture of the present and its 
passion, 
I can't forget the desolate despair of long ago ! 



62 



HEROES. 

If so it be we are forbid by fate 

To do the deeds that make a hero great, 

Let's do our duty each one as he should, 
And, lacking greatness, let's at least be good. 

Oh, there are seeds of kindness to be sown 

In hearts that never have such kindness known ; 

And words of gentleness and actions true 
Are always possible for me and you. 

'Tis true these seem of little worth, because 
They do not win for us the world's applause. 

But noble actions are not judged by size, 
The great intent the action magnifies. 

And though our names the world may never fill, 
The ear of God may find them sweeter still. 



1 



63 



IRELAND. 

Oh Ireland, Ireland, amid the waters blue. 

Across the seas, across the years my heart goes back 

to you, 
To you and to the faithful friends my early boyhood 

knew 
In Ireland, Ireland, so tender and so true ! 

Oh Ireland, Ireland, I mind me of the dew 

That sparkled on the flowers fair that in your meadows 

grew, 
I mind me of the playmates and the schoolmates not 

a few 
In Ireland, Ireland, so tender and so true ! 

Oh Ireland, Ireland, though other nations sue 

To win my heart's afl'ection, yet I'm not forgetting 

you, 
There are no scenes so beautiful, no friends like those 

I knew 
In Ireland, Ireland, so tender and so true ! 



64 



WHEN LOVE LAY DEAD. 

When Love lay dead — 
Communing with my grieving heart, I said : 
" Now let my lot be wheresoever cast, 
Little I care, the joy of life is past. 
The golden dreams that filled the olden days, 
The gladd'ning gleams of love-illumined ways. 

For aye have fled. 
Gone are the smiles that once the future wore. 
Gone are the gifts that once the future bore, 
Gone is my happiness, forevermoie. 
Since Love lies dead." 

But from Love's tomb 

Upsprang, as springs a flower in perfect bloom, 

A hope of purer, better, things to be — 

A mind made stronger by its misery, 
A heart grown tenderer by wounds that bled, 
And eyes made kindlier by tears they shed, 

A soul set free — 

And life grew sweet, again, so sweet to me. 
Though Love lay dead ! 



65 



THE ROSES. 

The roses, the roses, I sang about in June, 

When fields were green as emerald and birds were all 

atune, 
The roses, the roses, snow-white and ruby red, 
That filled the land with loveliness— ah, whither are 

they fled ? 

The roses, the roses, are withered and decayed, 

And barren lie the places where their beauty was 

displayed, 
But in the heart where summer reigns, in spite of 

sullen skies. 
The rose of Love is blooming still, and never, never 

dies. 



66 



THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 

(An incident of the Penal Days.) 

With stealthy steps across the wold 

In haste the hunted soggarth goes, 
The winter winds are blowing cold, 

Around him falls the winter snows. 
But httle does he heed the wind. 

The blinding snow, the dark morass, 
Far fiercer are the foes behind — 

He goes to say the midnight Mass. 

For hours, with many a devious turn, 

He's led the chase o'er moor and fen. 
Beheld the village tapers burn. 

But dare not seek the haunts of men^ 
For close upon his track have prest, 

{ His holy faith the only cause ) 
With horrid oath and ruffian jest, 

The minions of the Penal Laws. 

And woe to him should evil hap, 

Into their hands the priest betray ! 
The raven o'er his corse would fiiip 

Her sable pinions ere the day — 
But fainter now have grown their cries, 

Their shots more distant than before^ 
And hopes within his heart arise 

That he has battled them onc^ more. 



67 



But vain the hope of baffled foes ; 

A few more sanguine than the rest 
Still mark the trail as on he goep, 

Still keep the chase with eager zest :, 
But all unconscious fares he still, 

By tangled wood and torrent dread 
To where, beneath a lonely hill, 

The Mass in secret may be said. 

Oh failte ! failte ! Round him throng 

The remnant of his scattered flock — 
And Mass, with neither chant nor song, 

Is offered from a fallen rock. 
And never at cathedral shrine 

Were purer spirits wrapped in prayer 
Than those who worshipped the Divine 

Before that lowly altar there. 

But hark! The rite is scarcely done 

When rings a cry upon the breeze — 
"Up, Father, for your life, and run!" 

The priest arises from his knees. 
Too late! One muttered prayer to God : 

A volley shakes the mountain-pass, 
The priest lies slain upon the sod. 

He'll say no more the midnight Mass ! 



68 



''COME UNTO ME.'^ 

Filled is the world with misery and sorrow, 

Sad are our lives with bitterness and sin, 
Cares for today and worries for tomorrow, 

Darkness without and deeper gloom within ; 
Yet in the midst of our profound depression 

There is an eye Divine our needs to see, 
There is a voice of infinite compassion 

Saying in accents sweet, *' Come unto Me." 

*' Come unto Me, you weary ones that labor, 

Jesus of Nazareth — lo, I am He ! 
I am the Christ transfigured on Mount Tabor, 

I am the Christ transfixed on Calvary ! 
What though you've sinned against my heavenly 
Father, 

Yet have I pity on your souls distrest, 
You to My Sacred Heart I fain would gather. 

Come unto Me and I will give you rest. 

*' Come unto Me ! Oh heed the invitation. 

You whom the world has treated with disdain ; 
You who have need of strength and consolation, 

You who would find a solace for your pain ; 
Cease to pursue each fleeting, false ideal, 

Follow no longer every fruitless quest ; 
Only in Me is there a joy that's real. 

Only with Me will you find perfect rest." 



Ah ! the sweet word of our dear Lord in heaven, 

Ah ! the bright hope that nothing here can dim, 
Though on our Uves the stain of sin be, even, 

He'll not deny us if we come to Him ; 
Then let our nearest turn in coldness from us. 

Then let our dearest fail at friendship's test, 
Have we not Christ and His unfailing promise : 

" Come unto Me and I will give you rest "? 

Many a shadow may enshroud the dreamer. 

Many a cry may fall upon his ear, 
But the sweet voice of his Divine Redeemer 

Softly insistent he must always hear ; 
And though his days be filled with strife and sadness. 

And though he sings but in a minor key. 
Still there remains to touch his hfe with gladness 

Ever the words of Christ : " Come unto Me." 



70 



CHRISTMAS-TIME IN IRELAND. 

At Christmas-time in Ireland how the holly branches 
twine 
In stately hall and cabin old and gray ! 
And red among the leaves the holly-berries brightly 
shine, 
At Christmas- time in Ireland far away. 
And brighter than the berries are the kindly Irish 
eyes, 
And cheery are the greetings of the day, — 
The greetings and the blessings from the Irish hearts 
that rise 
At Christmas- time in Ireland far away I 

At Christmas-time in Ireland you can hear the chapel 
beU 
A-calling ere the dawning of the day, 
You can see the people thronging over field and over 
fell, 
To the "early Mass" in Ireland far away ; 
And saintly are the soggarths that before the altars 
stand, 
And faithful are the flocks that kneel and pray — 
Ah, surely God must show'r His choicest blessings on 
the land 
At Christmas-time in Ireland far away! 



71 

At Ctiristmas-time in Ireland there is feasting, there is 
sonsf, 
And merrily the fife and fiddle play, 
And hghtly dance the colleens and the boys the eve- 
ning long, 
At Christmas-time in Ireland far away. 
There is light and there is laughter, there is music, 
there is mirth, 
And lovers speak as only lovers may, — 
Ah, there is nothing half so sweet in any land on earth 
As Christmas- time in Ireland far away ! 

At Christmas- time in Ireland there is sorrow, too, for 
those 

Who scattered far in exile sadly stray, 
And many a tear in silence for a friend beloved flows 

At Christmas-time in Ireland far away ; 
But still amid the grieving is a hope to banish fears, 

That God will send them safely back some day, 
To know again the happiness that long ago was theirs 

At Christmas-time in Ireland far away ! 



72 



JOHN AND SAM. 

•' You're doing well," says John to Sam, 

'* And every day you're growing stronger ; 
Vm very much surprised, I am, 

And can't conceal my friendship longer ; 
Our blood's the same," says John to Sam, 

" So let us be as one great nation ; 
I'm very sure," says John, *' I am, 

That we can lick creation. 

** Of course, you know," to Sam says John, 

•' That it is years since I forgave your 
Peculiar acts at Lexington, 

And all your subsequent behavior ; 
And though you still," says John to Sam, 

" May lack aristocratic manners, 
I'm willing to o'erlook it, Sam, 

When we unite our banners." 

" You've very kind," says Sam to John, 

" But I don't think it would be pleasant 
In brotherhood to take you on ; 

" At least," says Sam, '* not just at present. 
Some little things that I recall 

Make your remarks seem out of season. 
For I suspect that under all 

You have a selfish reason. 



73 



" You didn't boagt of kindred blood 

Some years ago, nor smile so sweetly 
In fact, you tried the best you could 

To wipe me off the map completely. 
Forgetting things of that kind, John, 

I tell you isn't quite my style yet, 
And as for brotherhood, dear John, 

'T won't be for quite a while yet." 



74 



THE SONG 1 WOULD SING. 

I'm fain, in the song that I sing for thee, dearest, 

To weave all the beauties around me that lie, 
The gleam of the stream when its wave is the clearest, 

The green of the woods and the blue of the sky; 
The crystalline dew on the grass of the meadows, 

The morning mist hiding the high mountain crest, 
The shine of the sun and the play of the shadows, 

The shimmer of leaves that are never at rest — 

But only a rhyme that has no beauty in it 

Is all the result of the effort I make. 
And dreams that I'd capture are gone in a 
minute, 
And rude is the song that I sing for your 
sake. 

I'm fain in the song that I sing for thee, dearest, 

To weave all the music that nature affords, 
The lilt of the lark when the summer is nearest, 

Too subtle and sweet in its meaning for words ; 
The hum of the bees that are robbing the roses. 

The far away sound of the surges of seas, 
The chorus of birds when the summer day closes, 

The laughter of rills and the whisper of trees, 



75 

But only a rhyme that has no music in it 
Is all the result of the effort I make, 
And dreams that I'd capture are gone in a 
minute, 
And rude is the song that I sing for your 
sake. 



76 



WAITING. 

Oh, ever and ever the waves roll in, 
And beat on the yellow sands ! 
But never, oh never, the lad comes back 

Who voyaged to distant lands ! 
The ocean is white with the sails of ships 

That steer for the harbor of Lynn ; 
I can scan them all with an anxious eye 
But never my ship comes in. 

Moans the sea, the wild winds wail, 
But still no trace of my lover's sail; 
Sailor men drinking and singing in Lynn,^ 
But never, oh never, my ship comes in. 

Long years ago my lover's ship 

Sailed out on the ebbing tide ; 
I watched her till only a tiny speck 

Upon the horizon wide. 
And many a gallant youth since then 

Has striven my heart to win — 
But my heart is over the waters afar 
With a ship that never comes in. 

Oh, ever and ever the sound of the wave 
It cries like a mother over a grave ; 
Wedding bells clanging and ringing in 

Lynn, 
But, never, oh never, my ship comes in ! 



77 

Yestreen the maidens, one and all, 
Donned holiday coif and gown 
To greet the soldiers, scarlet clad. 

Parading through the town. 
Rejoiced and cheered they all save I, 

For 'mid the merry din 
I thought of a sailor lad, and I wept 
For a ship that never comes in. 

Oh, young folk marry, and old folk die, 
Merry folk laugh, and weary folk sigh ! 
Sad, oh sad, is the town of Lynn, 
For never, oh never, my ship comes in. 



78 



AFTER SUMMER. 

You will come again, Summer, with the fragrance 

of the tlowers, 
And the verdant meadows vying with the beauty of 

the bowers, 
Shady woods and waves that shimmer, and the blue 

sky bending o'er, 
But a happy heart, O Summer, you will bring me 

back no more ! 

You will come again, Summer, with the singing of 

the birds, 
And the loving laugh replying to the ring of wooing 

words, 
With the mirth and merry-making of the days in 

pleasure spent, 
But you'll never bring, O Summer, back again my 

heart's content ! 



79 



DO WE FORGET? 

Do we forget because our tears are dried, 

Because the passionate out-burst of our woe 

Is silent now, are our beloved who died 

Forgotten in their narrow beds and low? 

Ah, no ; though other thoughts may move the mind, 
Though other feelings may possess the heart, 

We keep the memory of the dead enshrined 
In deep recesses, sacred and apart. 

And though we weep no more as first we did 

When death appeared and hid them from our eyes, 

Love is not covered with a coffin-lid, 

And sad remembrance of them never dies. 



80 



LOVE AND REASON, 

If love forget what love most dear should hold, 

Or learn the things that love should never know, 

Then, maid, beware, — for soon above the cold 
Dead ashes of your love your tears will flow. 

Love's draught is sweet — the sweetest far that flows 
To bathe the lips of those who fain would sup ; 

Love's draught is sweet, but bitter soon it grows, 
If reason be not mingled in the cup. 



81 



WHAT IT IS. 

Love is a summer bright with pleasure, 

Love is a winter dark with grief, 
Love is a bliss that hath no measure, 

Love is a pain beyond belief ; 
Love is a well in the desert, giving 

Joy to the thirsty caravan ; 
Love is a vain mirage, deceiving 

Famishing man ! 

Thus with words do we endeavor 

Love to depict and to define, 
But we attain our object never, 

Weak and vain is our strongest line. 
Search we fact or search we fiction, 

Ages past as it is today- 
Love is the world's great contradiction 

Ever and aye ! 



82 



AN EXILE'S LONGING. 

When I feel the breezes blowing, strongly blowing 

from the West, 
And I mark the steamers saihng back across the 

ocean's breast, 
Then my heart is sick within me to be going with the 

rest 

To Ireland ! 

For the weary years are long. 
And my life is going wrong. 
And I'm longing for the sight of Ireland ! 

Oh happy are the people who with streaming eyes 

behold 
In the blessed Ught of morning Erin's headlands 

looming bold, ' 
And happy thrice are they who tread the scenes 
beloved of old 

In Ireland ! 
For the exiled years of grief 
In their present joy are brief, 
And they are glad to be back in Ireland ! 



83 



Let me come again to Ireland ere my days be all 

forespent, 
Though my hair be white as ashes and my body weak 

and bent, i 
Let me only come to die there, and I know I'll die 

content 

In Ireland. 

For 'tis sweet when life is past 
To lie down to rest at last, 
With the friends of our youth in Ireland. 



84 



LET US HAVE WAR ! 

Let us have war ! I long to see the soldiers 
Marching away with sun-kist banners blowing, 
Marching away with sounding drum and bugle, 
Flashing of swords and answering glint of bay'nets. 
Thunder of hoarse commands along the columns, 
Cadence of measured footbeats on the pavement. 
Trampling of fretful steeds bestrid by riders 
Belted and plumed, transfigured into heroes ! 

Let us have war ! I long to see the pageant, 
Dull are the days and gray, we want some color- 
Color to fill the eye and thrill the heart-strings ; 
Yellow and blue, and red and white together. 
Flowing along between the cheering people. 
God ! It is awful to be color-hungry ! 
Awful to starve so for a new sensation ! 
Awful to drag and drudge through times so peaceful 1 

Let us have war ! What is 't you say ? Oh, widows — 
Widows and orphans, suff"ering and sorrow- 
Man, you're no patriot to talk in that strain ! 
Passion wants rein awhile, we're tired of reason, 
Peace is a poor condition for a people 
Prosperous and great and powerful as we are. 



85 



Let OS have war ! The bloodier the better ! 
Let the young men we know go forth to battle ; 
Bend to the slaughter other people's brothers— 
That's what they're meant for — to defend their country. 
Let them be immolated for their country — 
Sweet is the fate of him who dies for country ! 



What? Go myself 7 O well, you know I'd like to, 
But you can see for yourself that I'm too busy. 



86 



BOER AND BRITON. 

(Being a woful ballad of Cousin John Bull.) 

When our kinsman o'er the water, Cousin John, 

Looked around for easy things to pick upon, 

In the Transvaal he detected cause for grievance, 80 

selected 
The South African republic as the one. 
(Yes, he hit upon the Boer as the one). 

So he massed his soldiers everywhere he could, 

Saying, softly like, " I'll give it to him good ! 

This air Kruger's only bluffin', I'll go in and knock 

the stuffin' 
Out of him and his as long ago I should ! " 
(He persuaded of himself as how he should). 

But the Boer is a fellow that can fight. 

And he doesn't get so rattled as he might ; 

Though he hasn't English schooling, when he shoots 

he isn't fooling, 
And the color of his feather isn't white. 
(Never known to show a feather that was white). 



87 



He is not a naked black with fazzy hair 

To run up against a Maxim unaware, 

But he knows the tricks of fighting, and he seems to 

take delight in 
Picking off a decoration here and there I 
(Mark the officers a-falling here and there !) 

So, the soldiers of the army of the Queen 

Find they're up against a foe who isn't green. 

And the tales of battle winning that we heard in the 

beginning — 
They may tell them to some immature marine. 
(To some very, very immature marine ! ) 

For the Boer's winning battles —just a few, 
And John Bull is adding much to what he knew. 
And of course we're deeply worried to see Cousin John 

so flurried — 
For he's bit off, this time, more than he can chew. 
(And of course we're deeply sorry. Aren't you ?) 



TO PAUL KRUGER. 

Here's our love to you, Paul Kruger, in the Transvaal 

far away, 
And your fighting farmer-soldiers waiting grimly for 

the fray 1 

May the God of battles aid you when the war-clouds 

burst in wrath 
And the Jackal of the Nations stands revealed upon 

your path! 

When the plotting, planning schemers have been 

foiled in all their fraud 
And the pirate flag of Britain to the wind is thrown 

abroad, 

When the wolf-pack of the spoiler on your trail is giv- 
ing tongue, 

And the might of British legions 'gainst your home- 
spun ranks is flung, — 

Then we say and pray, Paul Kruger, may your soldiers 

shoot to kill — 
May they give a deeper meaning to the words, "Ma- 

juba Hill." 



89 

May the Boer's heart grow braver and the Boer's aim 

more true, 
May his spirit grow more eager for the work 'tis his to 

do! 

May the shock of Boer bullets and the glint of Boer 

steel, 
To the looter and the robber Freedom's majesty reveal. 

Yes, we say and pray, Paul Kruger, may the God that 

you adore 
Give you strength to hound and hunt them from your 

land, forevermore ! 



90 



GENERAL JOUBERT. 

(Otherwise known as ** Slim Piet," or *' Crafty Peter," 
who died during the Boer War, after a series of 
phenomenal successes against the British) . 

He ain't got no frills or flounces on his name, 

No Victoria crosses decorate his breast ; 
But I tell you he's a soldier, just the same. 

And among the nations' fighters he's the best. 
He's a plain old square-jawed citizen, that's all ; 

In his book there ain't no word that means defeat ; 
He's a regular holy terror, and you'll make no bloom- 
ing error 

If you bet your money on " Slim Piet ! " 

He ain't got no azure life-blood in his veins. 

An' no titles does he carry when he fights. 
But he knows enough to come in when it rains. 

And he bars the British lion ere it bites. 
He's a commonplace old duffer, that is all ; 

But the Britons stand from under when he drops ; 
He can put them through their paces, up his sleeve he 
keeps five aces, 

An' he's got a way of springing " Spion Kopa." 



91 



He ain't had no chance to study up the rules 

Of the high-toned English way of making war, 
But he's showing men from British army schools 

Just a trick or two they didn't know before ; 
He's a homely man with whiskers, that is all, 

But he doesn't know the meaning of defeat, 
And we'll understand him fuller when again he wallops 
BuUer— 

He's a daisy of a general, '• Slim Piet ! " 



92 



WHENE'ER I THINK OF THEE. 

Whene'er 1 think of thee, of thee who died 

While yet my lips were warm with thy caress^ 
Who pined and failed and faded from my eide 

As fades a flower of summer loveliness, 
A long procession moves before my eyes 

Of days that once were dear to thee and me, 
And floods of sadly-sweet emotions rise 

Whene'er I think of thee. 

Whene'er I think of thee my soul expands, 

The beauty of creation is my own. 
No longer bound by sorrow's iron bands 

I pine in rayless wretchedness, alone. 
And all things lovely that have ever been 

Or through the ages evermore will be, 
I hold them every one my heart within 

Whene'er I think of thee. 

The splendor of the sunset and the dawn, 

The rose breath wafted on the winds of June, 
The startled shyness of the forest fawn, 

The haunting music of the robin's tune, 
The mystery of the starlight on the plain, 

The magic of the moonlight on the sea, 
All these, and more than these, are mine again 

Whene'er I think of thee. 



93 



Whene'er I think of thee my youth retnrns, 

My fair, free youth, my days of daring dreams, 
And many a joy for which the present yearns, 

Comes back to haunt me with its golden gleams, 
And youthful hopes, love-sanctified and blest. 

Once more in all their witchery I see ; 
They come again, my first-beloved and best. 

Whene'er I think of thee. 



94 



'' BONNY MARY OF ARGYLE." 

When the summer sun in splendor 

On the distant plains had set, 
And the golden-rod so tender 

By the falling dew was wet. 
When the vesper-bird was silent, 

And the winds had ceased to sigh, 
By our cottage door we gathered 

Out beneath the dark'ning sky, 
And full soon|a voice was ringing, 

And we sat entranced the while, — 
One we loved was sweetly singing 

*' Bonny Mary of Argyle." 

I have heard rich voices blending 

In cathedrals old and dim, 
To the throne of God ascending 

Craving mercy, peace, of Hira. 
But within my memory liveth 

That sweet song of other years, 
And hath power to soothe my sadness 

With the blessed balm of tears. 
A-h, the grandest anthem ringing 

In cathedral choir or aisle, 
Could not equal that sweet singing, 

'* Bonny Mary of Argyle ! " 



95 



'Neath the golden-rod now lieth 

The fair singer of the song, 
And the western zephyr sigheth 

O'er her lone grave all day long. 
Weary I, and heavy-hearted, 

Plod a-through the world my way. 
And my life with many a sorrow 

Is more darkened day by day, 
But a tender mem'ry clinging 

Brings me back a gentle smile. 
And a voice so sweetly singing 

*' Bonny Mary of Argyle." 



96 



1 THl'NK OF THEE. 

I think of thee 

When evening shades are falling, 

And sweet bells calling 
From a white convent o'er the distant lea ; 
And dreamily 

The evening breezes blow from out the west. 

The world's at rest, 
In twilight wrapt, serene, and turmoil-free. 

A nightingale 

Sings her sad song and sweet far down the vale 
Where deepest shadows be — 

All lonely I 

Gaze on the darkened meads, the darkening 
sky 
And think of thee 1 



97 



A BURIED HEART. 

They buried the maid in the forest glade ; 

They digged her grave in the shade of a fir ; 

(Over the spot where she is laid 

Whispering winds the branches stir). 

Solemn and slow the gray-haired priest 

Murmured a Latin prayer, and ceased. 

The holy water fell like a tear, 

As they piled the mould upon her bier. 
Low, low in the forest glade 
They laid her down in the shade of a fir — 
But, all unknown to the priest who pray'd, 
Unknown to the wielders of mattock and spade, 
They buried my heart in the grave with her ! 

Fair she was as flow'rs in the dell, 

That rise where the feet of spring have trod, 
And pure as the saints that the seers tell 

Chant round the great white throne of God. 
Sweet was her voice as the birds that sing 
When summer kisses departing spring ; 
And her lightest word was more to me 
Than aught on earth again may be. 



98 



Wild was the grief of tier friends, and loud, 
As they laid her low in the shade of a fir ; 
Tears shone on the cheek of her father proud — 
But I was mute amid the crowd, 
Tho' my heart was deep in the grave with her ! 

Toll, toll, O mission bell, 

Toll for the fair-faced maid who died. 
Voices of priests in Masses swell, 

And waft her soul to the Virgin's side ! 

Toll, toll, O sad-voiced bell, 

For the maid who lies in the shade of a fir ; 
And, O, let your notes ring out as well 

For my heart that lies in the grave with her 



99 



WHEN MAMIE SPEAKS HER PIECE. 

Whatever way the world may wag, 

Whate'er its ups and downs, 
Though luck betray and fortune lag, 

And life be full of frowns, 
There is a time when all my woes 

And all my sorrows cease, 
'Tis when, arrayed in Sunday clothes, 

Our Mamie speaks her piece. 

Ah, there is little room for care 

In heart or mind just then ; ] 
I simply lean back in my chair 

The happiest of men. 
I lean back in my chair, and know 

Of every pain surcease, 
When word by word, now loud, now loW; 

Our Mamie speaks her piece. 

When we have company 'tis then 

Our Mamie's at her best, 
And I am proud — and then, again, 

For her I fear the test. 
But Mamie's memory doesn't lapse. 

Her courage makes increase, 
And company just claps and claps 

When Mamie speaks her piece. 



LofC. 



100 

I've listened oft to actor folks 

On many a city stage, 
I've heard them tell their funny jokes, 

Familiar grown with age ; 
I've seen them do these warrior men 

Of ancient Rome and Greece, 
But still I didn't thrill as when 

Our Mamie speaks her piece. 

And so, howe'er the world may wag, 

Whate'er its ups and downs, 
Though fickle fortune limp and lag, 

And life be full of frowns. 
My heart is light, and home at night 

I find a sweet release 
From every pain of heart and brain, 

When Mamie speaks her piece. 



101 



THE AUTUMN RAIN. 

Raining in the springtime! — 

But we always know 
That the sun will shine again 

In a day or so. 
Though the eaves may drip and drip, 

Skies be overcast, 
In our hearts we feel and say 

'Tisn't long to last. 
Soon the summer's sweetness 

All the land wiU fill, 
Murk and mist no longer 

Hide the distant hill; 
Soon again the sky will 

Smile upon the plain — 
Thus we feel in springtime, 

Looking at the rain. 

Raining in the autumn! — 

Ah, the dreary day! 
Will the clouds that hide the sun 

Never pass away! 
Listen to the monotone 

Of the dripping eaves. 
List to the lamenting of 

The wind among the leaves. 



102 

Gone the summer's beauty — 

Every bud is dead ; 
Gone the summer's music — 

Every bird is fled ; 
All the hopes that held us 

Through the year are vain, 
When we sit in autumn 

Looking at the rain ! 



103 



COME, CHEER UP! 

Come, cheer up, my moody friend ! 

What's the good of whining ? 
What's the good of moping 'round 

Sighing and repining ? 
See, the sky is bright and blue, 

See, the sun is shining ! 
Let the sun shine in on you, 
On your heart and spirit, too. 
Let it bid you dare and do— 

What's the good of whining ? 
Come, cheer up ! 

Come, cheer up ! Lift up your head ! 

What's the good of whining ? 
Lo, the very darkest cloud 

Has a silver lining ! 
Face your fate and do not stand 

Peaking thus and pining ; 
Though your gift may not be grand, 
Do what's nearest to your hand. 
Do it well and truly, and 

You won't think of whining 
Come, cheer up ! 



104 

Come, cheer up ! Whate'er your lot, 

What's the good of whining? 
Griefs ? Why, every grief you bear 

Is of wise designing. 
Cares? Why, every care is sent 

Trying and refining. 
Then be blithe of heart and strong, 

Labor hard and labor long. 
And amid your smile and song 

Leave no place for whining — 
Come, cheer up ! 



DEC 7 »0« 



